Magicians like to make things disappear. Watch closely. The magician closes his hands around a coin and passes it from one fist to the other. Abracadabra. He opens them and you stare at his empty palms, in wonderful incomprehension. Watch closely. But there is nothing there.

A magician came to perform at our primary school once. He was a stock-trade magician, with a shiny black top-hat, a flowing black cape and a magic wand. It was the first time the entire assembly had sat still in silence. His teeth would flash and cards, coins, scarfs would disappear and reappear. He had an English moustache stuck awkwardly on his upper lip and he'd twirl it every time he completed a trick, saying, "how's that for magic, kids?"

It was a phrase we repeated around the house for weeks afterwards. How's that for magic? When you'd cleaned your plate during dinner -- how's that for magic? When mum couldn't find her keys -- how's that for magic? When my older brother Prescott couldn't find his homework -- how's that for magic?

The day after we saw the magician, Prescott and I had our first big fight. We squabbled constantly but until that point we'd had a certain respect for each other. Lark was still just a little baby, which meant that it was usually just Prescott and me against our parents. But that day, we both wanted to use his black bedsheet as a cape. He was two years older than me, but he hadn't yet learned to be a gentleman.

He shoved me away from the bed and tried to quickly collect the sheet up in his arms. I bounced back off the floor and immediately jumped on his back. The weight of me sent him sprawling and he hit his forehead square on the corner of the bedframe. Blood went everywhere, and we both burst into tears.

Prescott and I were more wary of each other after that. For a long time, he'd divide the Leggo set in half and we'd sit in opposite corners of the room, just pushing the pieces around because individually we didn't have enough to build anything. He needed stitches on his forehead, and the scar was still fresh.

Now here I was, staying with a Muslim family in Auburn, and I wanted Prescott to be here so I could show off my trick with a neat flourish of my hand. How's that for magic?

As I rode the train back with Reshma, I marvelled at how quickly her family had welcomed me into their home without knowing the first thing about me. Maybe it was because my dad was a lawyer, but in my house there would have been questions. My friends were always carefully vetted at the dinner table. My dad wanted to know what my friends planned to do when they grew up, what their parents did, were these people that I should be hanging out with, or could they potentially be a bad influence in the future?

And that was only after his first beer. By his fourth beer, it would be time for the cross examination, just to check and make sure that they didn't do hard drugs, didn't carry STDs, didn't deal in weapons or have any prior convictions.

My mum would sit by his side during the entire mortifying ordeal, quiet but attentive. She had grey eyes that were impossible to read. This made her much scarier than my dad. While my dad was certain to start yelling when he was angry, mum's features wouldn't even flicker. She'd just watch you, waiting for her moment, and you'd quiver like a greyhound, wondering how many weeks it would be before she'd let you out of the house again. After the bedsheet incident, I'd been grounded for three weeks and hadn't been allowed to play in the garden.

I couldn't imagine Reshma's mum being angry. She had a soft chin and currants for eyes. When she smiled everything in her face crinkled and creased, as though the laughter was escaping through her skin. When Zahara had brought me into the house and told her I was staying the night, she'd given me that big smile, nodded her head and gone to fetch blankets. The only thing she'd asked to know was my name.

On the train, Reshma was getting excited about dinner.

- Ma'll cook her biryani, she always makes that when we've got guests. It's my favourite. Have you had biryani before?

- It's a fried rice, isn't it?

- Yep -- you've had Indian food before, then?

- Yes.

Thursdays was our Indian night, when dad would bring home packages from the local Indian Home Diner. He never brought back enough butter chicken or naan bread and we'd end up fighting over who got to mop the sauce out of the aluminium containers with white Tip Top slices.

- Ma makes the best biryani -- lots of saffron and coriander. Mm... I'm hungry, aren't you?

My stomach started to growl. I wondered if my family would still be getting Indian Home Diner tonight. What about last night? Mum would have baked a birthday cake. Did they eat it, or was it still sitting there, waiting for my return?

The rhythm of the train invited confidences.

- It was my birthday yesterday, I told Reshma.

- Really? Happy birthday! How old did you turn?

- Eighteen.

Eighteen. I was legally an adult now, allowed to do what I pleased and to go where I wanted to. I felt a rushing sensation behind my ears and I told myself -- this is the feeling of freedom. This is what I've waited for for so long -- the chance to just lead my own life, without having to answer to anyone else.

But Prescott came into my mind, frowning at me with his arms crossed over his chest, and I couldn't be sure if this was the pink feeling of freedom or just the burning of shame. Prescott was twenty this year, and he'd stuck it out. He was still the one who got up to open the front door when my dad scratched away at it in the middle of the night, whining about having lost his keys at the pub. Prescott glared at me and I realised, with surprise, that I actually missed him.

Reshma and I walked slowly back home from the train station, hugging our shopping bags and enjoying the collection of people out on the streets around us. An old Chinese grandmother wheeled home a folding shopping cart, green leafy vegetables poking out over the top. A young Sudanese woman hurried past us, carrying one child on her hip and holding another by the hand. Reshma took my arm and was happy to play tour guide for me.

- This is supposed to be the real melting pot of Australia. One of my old teachers used to say that there's only a six-month gap between the news and Auburn. If you want to find out what really happened then just wait, and six months after a war, those people will be right here and you can ask them yourself.

We walked past a shop that sold 'Eastern wear', its window full of bright silk veils and jangly silver jewellery. The store beside it sold big bamboo steamers and little beckoning cat statues. (For good luck, as Reshma told me.) We went by the modest-looking offices of the Turkish News Weekly, heavy curtains drawn across its tinted windows, and we lingered near a halal charcoal chicken shop, which sent out the succulent smell of roasted chicken across the block. I nudged Reshma and giggled, pointing up to the shop.

- That's not exactly politically correct, is it?

Its sign had a cartoon of a man wearing Aladdin pants holding a scimitar high and chasing a chicken around. Reshma laughed and shook her head.

- That reminds me of a joke. An Indian man gets off the plane from Bombay and comes to the immigration counter. The immigration officer looks at all his papers, looks at his visa and then asks him "What is your Christian name." What does the man say?

- What?

- "But sir, I am a Hindu."

I felt as though someone was following us, as we wandered off the main street and down the back roads that led to Reshma's home. Several times I paused and looked over my shoulder, expecting to see Prescott walking briskly to catch up with us, but there was nothing there. We were just one street away from her house, when I felt something grab my shopping bag out of my hands. I cried out and pulled my arm away from Reshma, tugging the bag back towards me.

- Are you all right?

Again, there was no one around us. Just a corner store which sold everything you might possibly need -- rolls of toilet paper, buckets of laundry powder, bags of oranges and sacks of potatoes were stacked outside. A sign advertising ice cream and telephone cards directed people inside. But the streets were empty, the shadows still.

- Yes. I just... I just thought I saw a cockroach.

- Ew. It gets spooky out here in the dark. I don't like walking home by myself. It's okay -- we'll be home soon.

Home. I could see my family sitting around the dining table, eating in silence. Lark would be pushing her food around the plate, Prescott would be eating methodically, out of habit more than anything else. Mum would have eaten quickly and be scrubbing down the kitchen, she liked to keep busy when there was a situation which she couldn't do anything about.

Dad would be sitting on the couch, forlorn. I wanted to think that he wasn't drinking tonight, but I knew that was wishful thinking. He would have a beer in hand. It wouldn't be his first, nor would it be his last.

The magician never came back to our school again. Maybe he graduated to better shows, maybe he finally realised how ridiculous he looked in that fake moustache and quit the business. I still remember the coin, catching the sunlight that streamed in from the windows, glinting white just before he magicked it away. He brought it back again, later in the show. He pulled it out of someone's ear, but by then it was just a dull, silver fifty-cent piece. No sign of what mysterious journey it had been on.

Watch closely.

Reshma opened the front door and yellow light spilled from the hallway, welcoming us in. The sweet smell of cardamom drifted towards me.

And his hands were empty.